mhall46184@aol.com
What Happens to the Millions of Ballpoint Pens Manufactured Every Day?
No writer ever seems to exhaust the ink
That oozes from extruded plastic tubes
Made by machines and chemicals that stink
The crowded banks of the fetid Huangpu
Cheap plastic pens are given, shared, and sold,
Tapped and gnawed, pocketed, stolen, lent, and lost
Drying and dying after they grow old
Misplaced, mislaid, decayed, but seldom tossed
A ballpoint helps us with our thoughts to think
But no one ever seems to exhaust the ink
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